Don't Turn Your Back in the Barn (Adventures of a Country Vet)

by Perrin, Dr. Dave

  Alex answered on the second ring. His voice was tense. I could picture him on the other end of the line listening stoically as I told him the calf was dead. His cigarette would be burning and hanging from the corner of his mouth. He would be squinting as the smoke encircled his head.

  "This is the fourth abortion in the last two days, Dave. When the first one dropped her calf, I thought it was just stress from the shipping. Never even thought to call you."

  "How big was that calf?"

  "About the same size as the one you have there; it looked like it'd been dead inside her a few days...Never thought too much about it. Chucked it in the manure pile."

  "What about the rest of the herd? Are they still eating well? Is there any coughing, any runny eyes?"

  "Not that I noticed with the heifers, but now that you mention it, some of my own cows have started coughing, and I noticed a few with runny eyes."

  "Darn! I want you to run the worst of those critters through the chute and get some temps. Have any of the ones that aborted passed their membranes?"

  "Haven't seen any cleanings; some of them have a bit hanging. What are you thinking?"

  "Remember when I gave that talk on brood cow management? I told you about the problems the prairie guys were having with a virus called Infectious Bovine Rhinotracheitis—how there was a vaccine you should be using as soon as they calved again. You may be dealing with an outbreak of that in your herd."

  "That's all I need."

  "The only thing that doesn't go along with it is that calf's being aborted alive. My understanding has always been that they die from the virus infection and then are aborted."

  "What am I going to do, just sit around and watch my calf crop evaporate? That'll make my banker happy!"

  "You get started with the temps, and I'll get out there as soon as I can."

  Within ten minutes, the waiting room was crammed with people and animals. Doris looked like death warmed over, and I hated myself for making her continue. It was after six before we herded the last clients out the door. Doris sat like a lump on the waiting room bench as I pulled on my coveralls.

  "I'm going straight home to bed," she moaned. "I can't remember feeling so tired."

  The street lights were already on when I headed to the car. It was a clear night in March, and the temperature was dropping. The mud in the cow yards would tighten up tonight.

  Alex was waiting for me by the back door of the old two-storey house. He was uptight, his frown exaggerating deep, well pronounced wrinkles. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then rolled it around between nicotine-stained fingers. Staring at the smouldering butt as if it contained the answer to his problems, he slowly shook his head.

  "I don't like this, Dave. I don't like this one bit."

  "Were the temperatures up?"

  "Hell if I know. The thermometer I bought from you guys is in Celsius. I've never used anything but Fahrenheit! The ones that were coughing were mostly around 40; one was between 41 and 42. Is that up?"

  "They're up. That would be between 104 and 106."

  "Great...At least they don't look like they're slipping their calves. Maybe they'll just get sick and not abort."

  "Maybe, but what usually happens is the cow gets the virus— just like we'd get the flu. Then the calf gets it from her. You hardly ever lose a cow to the virus unless they get pneumonia, but it seems that calves in the last three months are likely to succumb."

  "That describes my whole bloody herd, Dave; they finish calving in two months!"

  "Well then, we better get started. This'll be a lab diagnosis, so the quicker we get the samples off, the sooner we'll know what's going on. Let's check the ones that aborted first."

  "I've got 'em in the holding pen; I set up a trouble light near the squeeze."

  Four heifers milled impatiently about the corral as we approached.

  "What temperatures were they running when you put them through?"

  "I wrote 'em down." Alex dragged a crumpled cigarette package from his back pocket. Holding it at arm's length, he read, "38.6, 39, 38.5, 39.2."

  "I'd call those all normal; that'd be consistent with I.B.R. By the time they abort, they're pretty much over the infection."

  Alex grabbed a rope and reefed on it. The sliding metal gate at the back of the squeeze screeched and rattled its way to the top of its guide. I climbed the rails of the corral and dropped to the other side. With one hand on a white-faced heifer's flank, I reached forward and tapped her on the side of the head. She reluctantly stepped away from the others, then headed down the chute. I ran behind her, banging the rails with a stick to herd her on. The end gate fell with a clang, and the head rack slammed shut.

  The heifer squirmed and twisted her body in an attempt to pull herself free. She bucked and shuffled her hind feet as I pulled her tail to the side and began scrubbing her vagina.

  "Does she ever stink!" Alex grabbed her tail. "You guys must be dead from the ass up to be able to work with this sort of stench all the time. Can't stand the smell of death."

  I'd often thought the same thing when I was called upon to deal with rotten afterbirths and dead calves. I slipped my hand into a plastic glove, then applied more soap and continued my scrub.

  Rinsing my hand in clean water, I reached forward through the vulvar lips. It was a tight squeeze, and the heifer danced from side to side as I advanced my hand to the cervix. The muscular ring was already closing down, and I was only able to pass two fingers through it. I wrapped the rope-like placenta around my fingers and pulled. There was a tearing sensation deep inside her and the cord came out, a few patches of membrane still with it.

  I withdrew, snipped some of the tissue from the sample, and dropped it into a jar of formalin. Leaving the remainder in the glove for culturing, I inverted it and tied a knot in the end. While Alex held up her tail, I drew a blood sample.

  We put the heifers through one after the other until we had collected tissue and blood samples from all of them, then brought four cows from a holding pen behind the house. They looked bright but coughed the moment we started moving them. The old Hereford that led the group trotted through the open gate and milled around the corral. Her left horn stuck almost straight up like a giraffe's; her ears were high. A yellow ear tag displayed Number 82.

  "Let's run her in first!" Alex whacked her on the rear end, and she flew up the chute. The head gate clanged shut as she drove the bars forward with her shoulders. The entire chute rattled as she struggled to pull herself free. "She's the craziest cow in the herd! Every year I swear I'm going to ship her, but every year she has the nicest calf and ends up staying."

  I unhooked the trouble light from the beam overhead to get a better look at the old cow. She struggled violently and tossed her head in my direction.

  "You watch yourself! She's a miserable old crock. If she can get at you, she will."

  I leaned forward with the light, trying to direct it into her nasal passage. I could see that the membranes were red and inflamed, but she wasn't about to hold still long enough for a close look. A long white gob of snot hung from her nose and disappeared into the depth of the nostril. I gingerly reached forward to run my finger along it. She snorted and tossed her head; the mucous whipped through the air and landed on the leg of my coveralls.

  "So much for your white-collar job." Alex smirked as I scraped the mess off. The old cow pushed ahead in the squeeze, tipping her prong horn forward in an attempt to prod me. I grabbed her nose across the nasal septum with thumb on one side and fingers on the other. She bellowed with rage and struggled to get free as I clamped down. The chute rocked, and I held on for all I was worth.

  "Grab the light, Alex!"

  He shone it into the old cow's face. As I slid my fingers into her nostril to wipe it clean, her eyes bulged from their sockets and tears rolled down her face.

  "Look here, Alex. See these little white marks all over the inside of her nostrils? Over her muzzle? See how red and inflamed the lining is?"

>   "Yeah. What does that mean?"

  "It's typical of I.B.R." I reached under 82's throat and firmly gripped her trachea. She coughed instantly and tears ran once more down her face. "She has an irritated windpipe as well."

  Alex followed me to the back of the squeeze and held her tail up while I drew a blood sample. We ran the remaining animals through the chute in the dark, bobbing back and forth with the trouble light. All were running fevers, coughing as we worked them, and all had lesions similar to those of Number 82.

  Alex looked dejected as I gathered my samples together. We stumbled towards the house, bottles clinking in my pockets. It was chilly and, except for a dog barking at the other end of Wynndel, the night was quiet. Alex's ever present cigarette glowed as he took a deep drag. I could hear the sigh as he exhaled, smell the odour of burning tobacco in the cool night air.

  "What the hell am I supposed to do, just sit out here and watch my calf crop disappear? There has to be some way to head this off!" We were sitting at the Shopas' kitchen table—it was after eight. Alex's wife plunked cups in front of us and filled them with steaming coffee. Much younger than her husband, Shirley was an active mother of two children. She focused worried eyes on Alex, then slipped into the chair next to him.

  "I wish I could be more upbeat, Alex, but depending on the strain of the virus, you could be in for one heck of a ride. First thing in the morning, I'd like you to cut out the heifers you bought and all the cows that look sick—it may slow down the spread. I was just detailed about a new vaccine. They claim it won't cause abortion in bred cows but I've never used it before; every other vaccine on the market is contra-indicated for use in pregnant animals."

  Alex gave Shirley a mournful look. He popped the lid from a can of Player's tobacco and rolled another cigarette. Using the butt that still hung from the corner of his mouth, he lit up, then methodically ground the remains of the old cigarette into an overflowing ashtray.

  "We've got to try something! I paid top dollar for a lot of the cows I bought this summer, and I stuck my neck out at the bank for those heifers."

  I added cream and sugar to my coffee, then hesitantly took a sip. Coffee was not something I enjoyed. We had a pot on the go continually at the office, and it was only the last few months that I could stand to drink it when socializing with clients.

  "What I'd like to do is call the vet college in the morning. I'll check with Dr. Radostits, the head of the large animal department, to see what he suggests. He probably has a better feel for how this vaccine has been working."

  "You better order some in! We've got to do something."

  My mind was grinding away like a cement mixer on the way home. Cases that had been resolved months before flashed into my mind. For the better part of a year, it seemed that I could do no wrong—that so long as I persevered, I could drag any case back from the brink. The last few weeks had been a rude awakening. Was I slipping? Or was it just a string of hard luck? It wouldn't be so bad if it was just me struggling along. It really hurt to watch good people like the Shopas and the Phillipses in such a pickle.

  It was after nine when I got back to the office. I was hungry, but I knew there wasn't a thing to eat in the place. I glanced at my watch—not much time left to get my samples off. For packing material, I found last week's Advance and dumped out the contents of a case of dewormer. I scratched out a history of events to accompany the Phillips and Shopa samples and hurriedly taped up the box.

  I arrived at the Depot Restaurant hoping it would still be open. It wasn't, but the door to the tiny office at the back of the building was. I was relieved to see the clerk waddle towards me. She was short and squat—her face round, her grey hair bobbed short.

  "You're at it late again." She looked tired and smiled feebly as she took the box from me. She wrinkled her nose as she plunked the box on the scale; I wondered if she was smelling something through the box, or if there was a rotten odour hanging on my clothing. "That'll be six dollars." I handed her a ten and waited as she made change and filled out my receipt.

  I wandered down the street to see if the Kootenay Hotel Restaurant was still open, but no luck. This was going to be one of those nights where I went to bed hungry. I dawdled home along the abandoned street and crossed aimlessly in front of the Daylight Grocery. The light was on, and I could see Mrs. Jackson wandering around near the back. I tried the door; it was locked.

  Tapping gently on the window, I waited as she shuffled over and peered out. The door opened with a tinkling of the bell. "Good evening, Doctor. Having another late night?"

  "Another late night and no food in the house. Would you mind if I did a bit of shopping?"

  "You go right ahead." Mrs. Jackson tottered to the back of the store and perched on an old wooden stool. Her face was gaunt, her body thin and frail. To me, she always seemed sad. "I can't seem to sleep tonight anyway."

  The place was bereft of almost everything one would expect to find in a normal corner store—no junk food, no cold meats, nothing frozen. It seemed that, as things were sold from the periphery of the store, they were never replaced. Only the display shelf beneath the dormer that gave the store its name had anything on it.

  I wandered around the shelves perusing their meagre offerings— a few cans of tuna and salmon, a lonely loaf of white bread. Poor Mrs. Jackson—her cupboards were almost as barren as mine!

  I squeezed the bread only to find it hard, with the texture of stone-ground. I smiled at the thought of Mrs. Jackson buying it dayold at the Garden Bakery. I grabbed a couple of cans of tuna and some salmon, then reluctantly picked up the loaf of bread.

  "Do you have any butter, Mrs. Jackson?"

  "Sorry, Doctor, I'm fresh out." Her lips quivered as she spoke. I smiled at her and set down my purchase. With a pencil, she meticulously wrote March 12, 1974, in the outer column of her ledger book. Rotating the cans one at a time to find the price, she entered their sale. As she turned over a can of tuna, she looked in my direction. I glanced away as her shaky fingers picked off a price sticker from the Creston Valley Co-operative. I took a peek at the ledger— at the rows of meticulous notations, the most amazing penmanship. This was the first notation for the day, but there was the entry for the Garden Bakery—March 10, 1974. My bread was at least two days old!

  The telephone was ringing as I entered the clinic. Lug was there with his wet nose to greet me. The recorded message clicked on, and I waited to see if it was something important. "Damn machine!" It was a man's voice. "This is Ron Missler. We have a dog that has been hit by a car. Please call us as soon as possible."

  I picked up the receiver and shut off the machine just as he was giving his phone number. "This is Dr. Perrin here."

  "Oh, thank God! I hate these bloody machines. Cindy's been hit by a car and we need help."

  "I'm at the office now if you'd like to bring her in. How badly is she injured?"

  "She's conscious. My son's on the side of the road with her; she's screaming in pain. She bit my hand when I tried to look at her, and I'm a bit leery of prodding her too much."

  "Do you think you'll be able to get her loaded? If you're afraid of getting bitten again you can tie a piece of gauze or rope around her muzzle before you handle her."

  "I'll manage, so long as you'll be there when we get there."

  I rushed upstairs and dug through a stack of dishes in search of the can opener. I found it in the sink half submerged in a pot of water. Opening a can of tuna, I gagged a couple of mouthfuls down and chased it with a bite of bread. Damn, it was dry! I hurried to the fridge in search of mayonnaise—anything to lubricate it.

  The pounding on the clinic door jolted me. I shoved another forkful of tuna in my mouth and rushed downstairs. Lug was on my heels, but I closed the door in front of him.

  "Hello, Dr. Perrin. Thanks so much for seeing us."

  I recognized Mr. Missler right away. The name hadn't rung a bell over the phone but, the moment I saw him, I made the connection. In his early thirties, Ron was almos
t six feet tall, athletic and youthful in appearance. He and his son had been to the office several times with a delightful yellow Lab. I had seen her for an initial health examination and then again for vaccinations.

  On each visit, the child came in clutching the pup tightly to his chest. The love that ten-year-old boy felt for his dog was palpable, and Ron did everything he could to encourage it. Their visits were never treated as a grudging chore or an unwanted expense—more like a family outing, the bonding of a father, his son, and his pet.

  "No problem, Ron. How's Cindy doing?"

  "I'm not sure. She seems to have settled down a bit, but we're all stressed out. We had a terrible time loading her, and poor Paul's at his wits' end."

  "Let's have a look." I followed Ron to the back of a blue Ford station wagon. The back door was open, and the boy was stretched out next to his beloved pet. Paul's long dark hair was caked with blood; his brown eyes brimmed with tears. His arms were wrapped around his dog, and he talked to her in nervous, squeaky blurps.

  "It's okay, Paul. Dr. Perrin'll look after her. She's in good hands; she'll be as good as new." Ron reached out a blood-stained hand and gently pulled his son towards him. "Let Dr. Perrin have a look at her, son." The back of Ron's hand was discoloured and swollen; serum and blood oozed from a pair of bite wounds.

  "She really did get you."

  "Poor thing. She was so frightened and in so much pain, she didn't realize what she was doing." Ron's eyes were focused on the dog as she puffed and panted through the tie that secured her muzzle. Paul rolled from the car and slipped his hand into his dad's.

  I crawled in next to Cindy and rotated her head to catch a bit of light. She looked shocky; her membranes were pale. "Did she try and get up after the accident? Could she bear any weight?"

  "She never really tried; we just kept her there on her side. She cried as soon as I tried to move her—that's when she bit me."

  Cindy lay with her head at half mast. Protracted strands of drool hung from her mouth; her eyes were closed. A long gash ran across her forehead and behind her ear. Her left hind leg was uppermost and held at an unusual angle.